


Of Waits And Promises

by reclusedetective (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, M/M, MAKE ME STOP TYPING, anyway have some declarations and kissing, im making moist chocolate cake tomorrow!, is this relevant, it breaks my damned heart, they're supposed to be happy but they're so sad in the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:44:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/reclusedetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are confessions made in a silent 221B.</p>
<p>Excerpt:</p>
<p>“Hey,” a hushed whisper. “Look at me.”</p>
<p>Sherlock opens his eyes, and the gravity of the words unsaid by John is <i>devastating</i>.</p>
<p>“Don’t do this if you’re not sure.”</p>
<p>John runs his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, unbearably gentle, from left to right, left to right, and left to--</p>
<p>“<i>Sherlock.</i>”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock has been subtly watching John the whole night, and the undercurrent tension that permeates the flat intensifies when John, after hours of mindless telly watching followed by blog writing, takes a deep breath and catches Sherlock staring at him. Instead of looking away or breaking the moment, John holds the detective’s stare. Moments pass, but none of them turns away, and the sincerity and hunger in John’s eyes catches Sherlock off guard. Sherlock feels his pulse rate increase, and the acrobatic performance currently going on in his stomach becomes a lot more passionate and enthusiastic, at least he _thinks_ so, because he feels like his dinner consisting of John’s famous peas and chicken masala might just make a reappearance and end up on his feet.

John pushes his laptop away and takes a large sip of tea. He waits. After two minutes, he gets up and makes his way to where Sherlock is lying on the sofa. John holds his right hand out, and his eyes are instructing Sherlock to take his hand. The aforementioned acrobats move their energetic show to Sherlock’s _heart_ , his damned ridiculous and frail heart, and it’s as if they’re executing flawless somersaults all over the inside of his chest, judging by his sudden inability to take proper, complete breaths. John is still waiting patiently, so Sherlock bites the figurative bullet; he takes the hand in front of him, and allows John to pull him off the sofa.

As the both of them face each other, the tension between them reaches a crescendo. The air around them is so utterly _suffocating_ , full of unspoken words. Sherlock trembles, feeling immense fragility over how this, _this_ will be what shatters him if it goes wrong. He shuts his eyes, his hand still in John’s, and he waits. It seems to be the theme of the night, all the _waiting_ , and Sherlock lets the silence speak for itself, hoping and somehow knowing with absolute certainty that the idea of how _intolerable_ it will be if John gets this wrong, is being conveyed to the same man holding his heart captive.

“Hey,” a hushed whisper. “Look at me.”

Sherlock opens his eyes, and the gravity of the words unsaid by John is _devastating_.

“Don’t do this if you’re not sure.”

John runs his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles, unbearably gentle, from left to right, left to right, and left to--

“ _Sherlock_.”

The name, uttered by John, sounds like a mantra, a _prayer_ , and Sherlock feels like weeping, like this might break him into a million pieces, and at the end of the day, he’s just so _tired_.

“Don’t do this,” he repeats. “Please.”

A finger is used to lift his chin up, and Sherlock’s light blue eyes meet John’s. There’s a sudden noise outside, of laughter and cheerful conversation, which is jarring, and none of them say a word until it’s quiet once more.

Sherlock observes the doctor right in front of him, who is so near, and in many ways, so impossibly far. There’s sadness in those eyes too, which Sherlock finds unacceptable.

“Do you not want this?” John asks.

Sherlock lets out a bitter laugh, unable to control his reaction to John's question.

"You are the world," Sherlock blurts out. When John's bemused frown is what greets him, he continues, because his mouth is not his own anymore and the words refuse to be suppressed any longer.

“You are the _world_ , you are what matters _most_ , and if one night is what you’re offering, I will take it.” The voice heard through the silence is harsh and there’s a thread of desperation attached to the words. “I will _savour_ every moment, _cherish_ each passing second as if it was the last breath, the last meal, the last of _anything_ that is important, but John, _John_ ,” and here is where the voice breaks, along with whatever remains of John’s resolve to keep himself at the distance from the fucking love of his life, “if you give me one night, it will not be enough, I will yearn for _more_ than you can possibly give, and I will tear you apart with how much I _want_ , need, _adore_ \-- god, John Watson, I adore you with every fibre of my being--so, please don’t--”

“Sherlock, look at me.”

The warmth of John’s palm on his right cheek makes him open his eyes. The yearning in John’s eyes makes him almost fall to his knees.

John clears his throat, and takes a brief moment to stare at the fingers of his right hand intertwined tightly with Sherlock’s left. He brings up their hands and he places a soft kiss right where Sherlock’s pulse point is. Sherlock jumps a little where he stands at the contact, and John feels the man before him tremble.

“I’m not-- not good with these things,” John admits, and he can feel the weight of Sherlock’s attention on him. “Words are inadequate, I think, when…when it comes to you. But, this isn’t a one night thing. You, you’re-- the most vital condition to my-- survival. I have existed without you, I have moved on with life without the most, _most_ important thing by my side, and I don’t need you to exist, Sherlock, I _don’t_ , but I _want_ you. I want you there, _always_ , in any and all capacity, because while John Watson exists without you, he doesn’t live, he’s not _living_. He-- I--”

John looks into Sherlock’s eyes.

“I _love_ you.”

Silence.

“I think I made a right mess of all that, but you must understand, Sherlock, _understand_ that--”

John’s words are cut off when Sherlock pulls John forwards with their hands that are still locked together. John thinks that Sherlock is about to kiss him, but instead, his face is placed in the crook where Sherlock’s neck is, and Sherlock is hugging him tightly while shaking.

John runs his hands down Sherlock’s back soothingly, and he whispers into Sherlock’s ears and holds him, holds the devastatingly fragile man before him and _aches_ with the unquantifiable amount of love he feels running through his veins.

After a long moment, Sherlock disengages from John and the vulnerability displayed on the taller man’s face feels like a thin sword piercing through John’s heart.

“Do you promise?” Sherlock asks quietly.

With conviction and understanding over the implication of how his answer will change things for the both of them, John takes a leap of courage, and says with utter sincerity, “Yes, I do.”

Sherlock’s eyes flutter close for a few seconds, and when they open again, John is able to see the relief conveyed through those amazing eyes. John smiles.

“Is this alright?” He questions, wanting to hear from his own mad genius’ mouth as to where they stand in this new facet of their relationship.

“Perfect.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

John moves in closer and invades whatever little is left of Sherlock’s personal space. Sherlock lets him.

“May I?”

Sherlock huffs out a laugh and nods, not trusting himself to speak beyond three-words per sentence.

John runs his thumb along Sherlock’s left collarbone, and his nose then follows the same path. Sherlock shivers at the touch. When he feels John’s tongue taking on the identical route, his hand reaches out and holds on to the front of John’s jumper. John giggles silently.

“Shut up.”

“Of course,” are the words mumbled into his neck, and Sherlock shivers again when John uses his teeth to lightly scrape at his collarbone, after which there is a wet suction that drives all coherent thought out of Sherlock’s head.

Satisfied with the dark red proof of his ministration, John moves on to the right collarbone and gives it an equal treatment. At the end of it, John blows at the damp marks and Sherlock moans _beautifully_. John peppers light kisses up Sherlock’s neck and places his left hand lightly at the back of the pale neck. He squeezes it softly once, twice and then drags his nails gently across the skin, back and forth, before pulling the neck down and placing Sherlock’s face incredibly closely to his. Sherlock’s nose is right in front of his, so he rubs their noses together affectionately, not missing the smile it entices out of Sherlock.

“Get on with it,” commands a gruff voice, and John allows himself to lazily smirk at the flustered detective. Instead of complying, John places a kiss on Sherlock’s left cheek, one on his nose, and another on his right cheek. He senses a complaint directed his way, so he wards it off by placing a sweet, _sweet_ kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s lips. He does it again, and again, till the corner of the lips turn upwards into a smile, and John finally brushes his own lips right against the perfect cupid bow. He lets a full minute pass, waiting for the man before him to completely relax, and proceeds to run his tongue across Sherlock’s gorgeous lips. He then lightly bites on the bottom lip and draws it into his own mouth so he can suck on it, which causes Sherlock to whine and squirm delightfully against him. John tangles his fingers into those dark curls, tilts his head to the side, and slots his mouth against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock actively participates in the kiss, feeling like he’s drowning in all the information and the knowledge that it’s _John Watson_ he’s kissing, and when John pulls away for a deep breath, Sherlock drops to his knees and buries his face in John’s jumper. John waits, for a minute, then two, after which he too drops to his knees and embraces Sherlock.

“Do you promise?” John asks, parroting back the question from before.

When Sherlock leans in close and whispers his answer into John’s ear, John’s mouth stretches wide into a smile, an infectious one which Sherlock mirrors instantly, and as they move in for another kiss, the silence feels like a _promise_ , and the _waiting_ , never just a wait any longer, but merely a brief interlude before a _fulfillment_ of a promise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wonderful and lovely [brokenEisenglas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas) volunteered to be my beta, and I am so fucking lucky, because without _her_ , this chapter would not exist and I would be completely lost without my newfound partner-in-crime. This is dedicated to you, my darling padawan! :)

They lie on Sherlock's bed, atop the covers, facing each other. Sherlock has his hand placed on John’s chest, just above where his heart is, and Sherlock is thoroughly captivated by the sight before him. Sherlock watches how every breath causes it to rise _up_ (John loves him), down ( _John_ loves him), up (John _loves _ him), down (John loves _him_ ), up (John John _John_ ), down-- 

A soft tap on his nose startles him out of his trance and he looks up to meet John’s eyes, which are full of adoration and love. Sherlock feels his heart skip a beat. He doesn’t bother to condemn his own treacherous heart.

“Mind palace?” John questions, voice low and _raspy_ , which amplifies the steady thrum of want want _want_ coursing through Sherlock’s veins. Judging by John’s smug smirk, Sherlock knows that his doctor fully understands the effect his gravelly voice causes; so Sherlock frowns in response, utterly betrayed over how transparently obvious his body is and yet so tremendously relieved that this, _this_ is now his _reality_ , and it’s devastatingly humbling.

“No. Thinking.”

John considers this for a moment, before gifting Sherlock with a blinding smile. He then winks cheekily at Sherlock, and no, _no_ , a grown man of John’s age should not be that adorable, it just isn't fair.

“Thinking about _me_?” John teases softly, looking absolutely _delighted_ at the idea of it, as if Sherlock doesn't spend every moment of his damned life filled with thoughts of _John_ in his mind. It's baffling and preposterous, to the extent that he has to lean in a few inches closer to the ridiculous man before him, and punish him with a bruising kiss.

After a long moment, they finally break apart, and the sound of silence combined with their harsh breathing is perfect and electrifying. John looks dazed by the kiss, his hair sticking up from how much Sherlock has been pulling at it, and Sherlock wants to just _consume_ the utterly delicious man in front of him. 

“Why--” a nibble on John’s bottom lip, “are we--” followed by a dirty slide of tongue against John’s, “not naked?” 

John pulls away and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s. He lets out a deep breath and groans when he feels Sherlock’s right hand drifting lower, tracing the hair on his chest down to his navel. He stops the wandering hand by circling his fingers around Sherlock's wrist, and brings it up to his lips. John kisses the open palm twice, and cherishes the stuttered gasp that Sherlock lets out. John takes another deep breath, and another, and he feels like he might _die_ from how much he loves, _loves_ Sherlock; that the desire, the _yearning_ he has for Sherlock will simply end him because it’s too much, it’s more than John can handle and he just doesn't want Sherlock to hurt, not anymore, not ever again. 

“You’ll be the death of me,” John admits with a whisper.

Sherlock doesn't say a word, but John is able to feel the weight of Sherlock’s attentions on their hands as he connects his open palm to Sherlock’s, and proceeds to lace his fingers between Sherlock’s long ones, holding it tightly before stealing another desperate kiss.

“It would be an honour,” John says into Sherlock’s mouth, and the statement seems to be the last straw that breaks Sherlock’s self-control, because Sherlock detaches his hand from John’s tight grip and pins John to the bed, pupils wide and dilated. John lets out a filthy moan at the sight of the beautiful man straddling him, ready to destroy him with his touch, and all John can think is: _take_ , take all that I’m giving you, _take_ all that I have and more. It is as if Sherlock hears him, because Sherlock proceeds to unbutton John’s shirt with trembling hands, and fucking _hell_ , they might not survive this at all, John thinks.

 

++++++++++++

 

John clenches his fists tightly and resists the urge to throw something, _anything_ at the mad genius standing in front of him. The bloody idiot thinks he’s invincible, and John’s so fucking terrified that he might lose Sherlock again, and when he speaks, his voice is absolutely furious. Sherlock thinks John looks like an avenging angel, he’s _beautiful_ in his anger and wrath, but Sherlock’s smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself for the moment.

"Sherlock, you _idiot_. You can't just _do_ things like that, not anymore, did it even occur to you wh--"

"Pause."

John stops mid-rant and a stubborn scowl appears on his face.

"Promise?" Sherlock asks.

John looks up at the ceiling in silent appeal. He receives no help from any existing entity nor does he get any assistance whatsoever from supposed supernatural beings. He waits. Nope, no help forthcoming. He looks at Sherlock, who is fidgeting more and more as his anxiousness increases in the face of John's exasperation.

John sighs, and he feels his anger draining away with every passing moment. Damn it. 

"I do." 

Sherlock hesitates. "Say it."

John stomps forwards to where Sherlock is standing and grabs the lapels of Sherlock's suit. He tugs the utterly infuriating man before him closer, and catches Sherlock's left earlobe with his teeth. He sucks on it gently until Sherlock starts trembling, and blows on it before he whispers in the ears of the condition to his continued survival.

"I love you, you aggravating dick, you drive me 'round the bend when you don't fucking listen to me and almost give me a bloody heart attack by-- by getting yourself nearly _shot_ ; god, I love you, you absolute twat, even when you're being a, a-- moron for not taking care of yourself and giving me palpitations, I _swear_ to god, and I love you so fucking much, Sherlock Holmes, along with your crazy edges and how sappy you are as a whole, so please, love, eat your goddamn dinner so I can forgive you for the shit you pulled today, and we can have make-up sex before the day is over."

Sherlock nods. He lets out an unsteady breath and presses his dry lips to John's. He takes a step back. 

"Unpause," he says.

"You arsehole."

"What, you were going to yell at me, go on," Sherlock responds, an innocent frown etched on his face, one that doesn't fool John _at all_.

"You filthy cheater, you know I'm not mad at you anymore, not when you pull that trick."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, really."

John walks backwards, towards the kitchen, and towards Sherlock's latest set of experiments. Sherlock is filled with an impending sense of doom, and he makes a helpless noise when John overturns one of the petri dishes.

"Oops," says the smirking man Sherlock adores, and he doesn't know whether to shout in outrage or laugh because he _deserved_ that and he should have known better than to mess with his vicious army doctor.

"John, that was a really importan--"

"Pause."

Sherlock fights off the oncoming smile.

"Say it," John demands.

"I love you, John Watson."

"Even when I'm clumsy enough to ruin your beloved experiments?" 

Sherlock allows himself to smile and his heart soars into the sky and beyond when John mirrors his reactions. 

"I love you, John Watson," he repeats fervently.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, I'm not feeling it much, you know, maybe--"

"I fucking love you, John, even when you ruin my experiments, take up every thought in my mind without my control, and ruin my flawless vocabulary with swear words; I-- I fucking _do_."

"Unpause, I'm unpausing this right _now_ and you're going to get undressed in 10 seconds,  and I'm going to fuck you until my name is the _only_ word that comes out of your sinful, utterly indecent mouth."

Sherlock untucks his shirt immediately and rushes into his room. John waits. And waits.

"For god's sake, hurry up!"

John barks out a laugh, and strides into the room while unbuttoning his own shirt. He's got a promise to fulfill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The "Pause" and "Unpause" idea is inspired by an episode of _HIMYM_ , before it broke my heart via a crappy finale that never happened. Any and all feedback is welcome. /proceeds to bribe ya'll with cupcakes/
> 
> So, up next, a Hercules AU fic which will be an expansion of [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1045668)? Y/Y?


End file.
